b a d at l o v e
by Tiredandlazy
Summary: Keith's having a bad time at life. Luckily, there's a pretty annoying neighbor to help him out. Tw for self harm, hinted eating disorders and referenced child abuse. (Possible Klance? I'm making this up as I go)
1. new things

**~ I don't own the show or any of the characters yadayadayada**

Keith was tired. Exhaustion lay heavy in his bones, weighing down on his shoulders like some form of a bizarre piggyback ride.

It was dusk, the chilled fall air crisp and smoky with the muted barbecue next door. It made something knot in Keith's stomach, cramping and twisting as if he had swallowed a bag of nails. The sky was a dusty pink, blotted with thinning grey clouds and the occasional flock of geese, generally pleasant, but not enough to distract from the sting.

The coffee maker gurgled from where it sat on the kitchens countertop, finally spluttering to life after a five minute wait. The machine was a hairs breath away from broken, slow on the best of days and suspiciously sticky, but still remained a decent steal at a local thrift shop for only _five dollars_.

Cost aside, the things persistent slowness also persuaded the habits of a certain stoner neighbor to stop hustling mugs of coffee from his apartment. Rolo was fairly good company, but the man knew there was more to his morning visits than to chat.

When the machine finally silences, he swipes the burgundy mug from the stand and drinks eagerly, let's the liquid burn his tongue and throat into a soreness that likely won't leave for the rest of the weekend. The hot caffeine chases the edge of his exhaustion off, whittling it down to something he could stand to deal with until he reaches the sweet expanse of sleep. Hopefully quieting the twisting pain in his middle with the kind of darkness that the teen found through dreamless nights alone. Dreams were disasters, glassy shards of rag doll nights spent bleeding over cotton sheets and smudges of green painting his abdomen. Ink black skies and thundering voices, passing town after town, week after month. _Waitingwatchinghurting_ -

There a knock at the door, light, quick raps that seem to carry a tune once Keith thinks about it. They echo hollowly down the corridor, morphing into something a little more sinister by the final bounce. He answers anyways, quietly shuffling down the hall and cracking open the door with squinted eyes.

"Hello..?"

There's a young man standing there with a startlingly wide smile and golden brown skin that somehow manages to glow under the ridiculously dim lights in the apartments corridor. He's lean, lightly muscled at the shoulders with dark short hair that twists and knots by his ears. Fairly attractive, a part of Keith notes.

"Hey!" The guy sticks out a tanned hand, grasps for Keith's own before shaking it wildly. He's embarrassingly pale in contrast, and the teen finds himself internally scowling. "I'm Lance, your new neighbor."

"Keith." He replies, somewhat dully, distracted at sudden presence of a man, tall and wide all over, slinging an arm around his new neighbors shoulders. He's chubby and cute looking, with wide friendly chocolate eyes and bronze skin. His dark hair is pulled back by a scarlet red headband, and he practically blinds Keith with a distressingly kind smile.

"I'm Hunk." The mans hand completely dwarfs Keith's own, but his handshake is definitely gentler than the one prior, and the long haired teen has never been more grateful. "Also your new neighbor."

"Keith." He says again, feeling like an idiot as he scrambles for his composure.

There's an awkward moment as Hunk shakes his hand a little longer than necessary, all smiles. Keith is suddenly very conscious of how sweaty his palms are, and pulls away to discreetly wipe them on the back of his joggers.

"We're just down the hall." Lance says suddenly, all too loud. "If you want to bake us or pie or something."

"I wouldn't mind a pie." Another voices pipes up. A short teen with fluffy ginger hair and golden frames that seem to be too large for their face. They peer at him with a squint, as if they weren't wearing glasses at all.

"That's Pidge!" Hunk shouts, also very loud.

"I'm Pidge." They agree.

"Also your new neighbor." Lance adds, thankfully quieter this time. He folds his arms behind his head, still grinning widely. Keith wonders if his cheeks hurt.

"I'm Keith." He repeats, feeling just a bit broken and a whole lot stupid from all the sudden social interaction. "I uh- don't really bake."

Hunk laughs, broad shoulders jostling his companions with every inhale. "That's fine. I bake loads."

"Yeah." Pidge pipes up, they've got a laptop hugged against their chest. "He's like our personal chef."

Lance snorts. "A lot nicer than Gordon Ramsey though, so a lot less drama disappointingly."

They fall into a light, awkward small talk that no one actually seems to be quite invested in sans Hunk, who jovially describes the unreal experience he had had at a sushi restaurant back in Ohio involving a blowtorch and an unexpected hailstorm. He's just gotten to the part of which half the kitchens caught fire when Shiro's suddenly there, peering over their heads to grin at Keith.

"Hello." The man chimes, offering a smile. Hunk shrieks in surprise and Pidge snickers.

"I think I've left the oven on." Keith blurts, face burning. "These are my new neighbors, introduce yourself Shiro."

Shiro laughs, warm and amused in a way that makes something knot in his chest. "Well now you just did it for me!"

Keith ducks into the kitchen in lou of an answer, dropping the heavy bags with a sigh as soon as he's out of sight. The man rolls his shoulders before stooping to collect the items and methodically puts them away. It calms his heart, which he hadn't even realized had been beating so fast until he'd rushed away. Meeting new people always spooked him, the fear of the unknown, he supposed.

It's only a couple of minutes before Shiro joins him; gently knocking on the doorframe before stepping in. He looks tired, but content and not completely miserable. It's enough for Keith to offer him a smile; small but sincere.

The older man grins back, snatching a soda can from one of the countertop and popping the lid with a satisfying hiss that the younger male could never manage to get down.

"Oh, ew." Keith says. "That was room temperature, monster."

"Coke, actually." Shiro offers back. "Diet."

Keith groans, shoving at the man with his shoulder. He predictably doesn't even shift at the movement, all muscle and steady as a rock. The silence they fall into is pleasant and companionable, strangely comforting to someone who'd grown to hate the quiet and the loud.

The younger male sweeps up his mug from where he'd left it on the table, examining his friend over the cups rim. They'd known each other for years, kicking it back in Texan cafes over textbooks and coffee. He'd been the closest thing Keith ever had to family, and the dark haired man was glad they'd reunited, which still remained the only time the universe had shown kindness to him.

"So," he pulls at his hair, wishing for a band to pull his bangs back. "What brings you here short notice."

Shiro cracks another smile, it's stiff at the edges, tight all over and practically screaming of hidden distress. "You weren't answering your phone." The man runs a finger down the cans side. "Thought I'd- thought I should check on you."

Keith feels a stab of guilt, hot and unwelcome. He swallows over the sudden lump in his throat and rocks forward in his chair to peer inconspicuously into Shiros face. His phone must have remained dead, his charging wire was three strikes away from being as broken as the coffee maker, dangerously frayed and habitually not recharging his phone when plugged in.

"I'm okay." It's quiet, awkwardly wobbling near the end, but hopefully gets the point across.

It's not, Keith knows instantly when Shiro nods. His head bobs fiercely but his eyes are firm when they meet Keith's own. _Are you sure ?_ They ask in the sky blue expanse of the mans iris.

Keith doesn't know how to say he is, when he hadn't been. He's spent nights over blades and alcohol and one night stands that leave him bruised and alone by the time the sun rises. Spent nights running through the dark, terrified of things he can't see. There's shadows in every corner some days, crowds that see through him, co workers that look down at him. Whispers in his dreams saying _brokenbrokenbrokenangryuglyboy_ -

Keith isn't okay but doesn't know how to say it.

And so he doesn't.

 **I don't know what I'm doing~**


	2. Awkward encounters

**I'm hardly even bothering to proof read these so feel free to point out my many mistakes in these chapters. Also I'm totally not throwing my own issues onto Keith like what pssshhh nahhh no definitely not. Ha. Ha.**

 **Also I've never been to la or anywhere close to it. Sorry if my portrayal is off, feel free to yell at me.**

 **((Trigger warning for brief self harm via scratching))**

 **Lance**

It was raining.

Lance wasn't the biggest fan of rain; didn't like the chill it brought or the darkness it cast. Rain seemed like a warning, a sign for bad things ahead. Telling him to batten down the hatches and curl up into something small.

But Lance wasn't a child anymore, he was a twenty three years old man who didn't curl into balls because the clouds decided to cry. He couldn't, really, unless he wanted to miss work _again_ and likely lose the job he'd secured no more than a month ago.

The cold was the first this he noticed, when he stepped out. The chilly, wet air and the fresh scent of mud and smoke. Oddly refreshing, somehow. There was an empty soda can leant against the sidewalk and multiple gum wrappers rolled into a soggy ball under the apartments eve, little pops of color against the dreary grey city aesthetic.

The road was fairly empty, save a few people ducked under umbrellas and hoods who strode down the road with their heads down, sloshing through puddles without the slightest care. It seemed a little cold shouldered; not even looking at who passed by. No nod of recognition or even a sideways glance, all too busy in their own worlds.

Back in the California, people had been loud, overly friendly and ridiculously confident. Sharing talents and singing their hearts out on city streets, waiting year after year for their dream future. It had been depressing, sometimes, seeing the same people year after year, always a little less hopeful than the last, desperate for a job, a record deal, anything. But there had been determination on those streets, courage, hope and faith to make it big. Sometimes they'd share their dreams with him, exchanging career wishes over the crowds babble.

But here, no one was even making eye contact. Nose deep in phone conversations and walking as fast as humanly possible without it being considered running. A man nearly tipped a stroller pushing it over a sewer drain, hardly pausing his march to steady the carriage.

His phone vibrates from his back pocket, and Lance wiggles awkwardly too pull it out without it being damaged by the storm. It's Hunk, spam texting him a grocery list that he'll _pay him back for please and thank you?_

The list is a jumble of foods and spices the man can't even begin to pronounce, but his bulky friend has learned from much experience to attach photos of the items Lance knew he pulled straight from google images. The pitstop to the local grocery store Lance will make after his shift will definitely be worth the time, he knows, Hunk was a god in the kitchen. There's the small concern of losing himself in the city's streets, but it's a small risk to take if it ends in Hunks cooking.

It'll be worth it.

Lance isn't sure how or when he'd lost his way, just knows that he's wet and tired and dragging heavy plastic bags through the rain. It's darker now, the clouds quickly becoming a charcoal blue that's only slightly more sinister than the slate grey they'd been that morning. Despite the storm, there's a thin layer of sweat on the back of his neck and forehead. He probably looks oily and gross; and hows he supposed to woo every living thing if he looks like he rolled in a grease pit?

His phones map turns out to be stupidly confusing and he's on the verge of throwing his pride out the window and texting his friends for help when something slams against his chest. Hard.

"Ah-, fuck." There's a man on the ground, all curly black hair and swamped in a red jacket that completely swallows the guys frame. It's only after he lifts his head that Lance recognizes him.

"Neighbor!"

"Nngh?" There's something akin to annoyance flashing in his eyes (violet, Lance notices. He wonders if their contacts)

"Neighbor!" The brunette repeats, dropping the groceries half hazardously to wave his arms. His hand clips a bystanders cheek.

"Oh." The guy, (Keith?) stands slowly and Lance is pleased by the realization that he's taller by a few lucky inches. "Hey."

"Hey!" The latino stoops to hastily gather up the bags, he'd forgotten about the downpour. "I'm lost."

He worries his lip in a way that Lance _definitely_ doesn't find attractive. "Where do you need to go?"

"Home, dude. My groceries are getting _hella_ soggy."

Keith gives him a strange look, a single thick brow raising to meet his hairline. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he jabs a thumb at the building they're standing by.

Lance feels two feet tall. "Oh." He chokes on an awkward laugh. "Yeah I knew that."

He flees the scene before the dark haired man can even think to respond, flying up the steps and slamming the apartment's burgundy door behind him with a withering bang.

 **Keith**

The day was bland, dreary and cold. Every step felt preplanned, every breath too short. Movement prickled irritation, there were too many people on the streets, too many noises, and he focused on the steady drag of his nails against the inside of his wrist.

The sidewalk was gritty with drying mud, a child splashed through a steadily shrinking puddle, likely ruining the light up sneakers she paraded down the pavement. There was a man to his left ducked under the bus stop beside him, chattering irritably into a chunky black phone. Everything was so casual, but Keith couldn't help feeling anything but.

There was too much light peeking through the stormy grey clouds, too much sound and too much air. It buzzed in his ears and warped in his eyes, everything he touched was static- _was he underwater?_

Just when Keith loses his ability to hear anything above the roaring in his ears, the bus pulls up.

It's sleek and black and caked with mud by the tires, the driver has an unlit cigarette between his lips. The chatty man beside him moves to enter and Keith finds himself following, stumbling up the steps in a bout of uncharacteristic clumsiness. The hiss of the vehicle breaks off some of the cotton he can feel in his throat, but does nothing to quell the twisting in his gut. Something akin to dread builds in his chest, and the man tucks himself in the back, far from the rest of passengers.

The drive is silent sans a few murmurs exchanged between a heavily dressed group in the front, but it's peaceful and Keith finds himself being pulled back into clarity by the time he's at his stop.

The world is still soft and staticky, there's an unpleasant buzz when his hand brushes against a bystander, but the roaring has quieted into a dull ringing. His steps are steadier, and by the time he's ducked into the bar his hands have stopped shaking.

Nyma greets him with a loose grin by the counter, tossing her hair over a shoulder as she unashamedly flirts with a customer. They're gripping their glass tightly, face flushed beneath a thick tussled bob; but seemingly pleased.

Keith wonders if the his coworker will leave early with her.

The dark haired man carefully slips by the blonde without interrupting, ducking his head as to avoid any uncomfortable eye contact. The bar smells like smoky beer and a truly unpleasant amount of body odor, but Keith finds it almost comforting. Hidden behind the countertop stirring up drinks like a machine, he can almost ignore the liquid static that is still prickling at his fingers.

Time flies with the drinks. There'd been two fumbling fist fights and a group of highly intoxicated people who thought it'd be a great idea to have a threesome in the bathroom, but overall he's surprisingly not miserable by the time his shift is over.

The walk back to a street busy enough to house a cab is more tiring than it likely should have been. Keith can't find it in himself to think about it, just huffs a breath that fogs with the fall chill and loiters on the sidewalk, swaying.

(He falls asleep in the back of the cab, embarrassingly enough.)

 **(Nyma/Shay fight me)**


	3. untold invites and closing the windows

**Oi, I don't know how to linebreak because I'm an absolute noob, kindly hmu if you know? I feel like an idiot.**

 **Lance**

Lance spends the days over chilled green tea and crumpled exam papers. Thinks about home and his mother and siblings, wonders how his little niece is doing, wonders if she's recovered from the nasty flu she had picked up in a ball pit earlier that month.

The tea is aromatic and smooth against his palate, helps clear his mind and smooth out the words in front of him. Flitting memories of days spent on the beach are ignored from the foggy apartment seated in the heart of dreary Albany, the sky is grey and the air tasteless. _It's cold enough to snow now_ , Pidge has told him earlier, _it's expected by thanksgiving_.

He hadn't experienced snow since he was nine and missing his front tooth, visiting family somewhere near Maine, rolling up snowballs to chuck down the back if his brothers coat. There had been hot chocolate waiting inside, steaming his face until his nose wasn't quite as red anymore.

The snow had been blindingly bright and sparkly. Reminded him of his mother's eyeshadow that she left strew across the bathroom counter. It had made funny crunching noises under his feet and weighed down the trees so heavily multiple branches had snapped.

Lance wonders if it's as magical as he remembers.

The paper is suddenly impossibly dull, stuffed with carefully lined words, an inky black mess of last semester bullshit. There's something almost teasing in the way the words are crammed all the way down to the bottom of the page, silently mocking from the cozy white crispness. Lance is grateful that this is his last year spent hunched over exams and overly expensive college books, knows there's a future of sweating over student loans, and feels a cocktail of dread and joy because he still doesn't quite have the hang on adulting. Can't remember to do his laundry or wash his dishes, forgets the bills and loses his wallet every other week.

He's been a bit of a hot mess as of late, his baby soft skin had broken out in dots of purplish acne under the stress only a few days before class; stress and bad skin care was to blame, the Latino was sure. It discolored the skin across the apples of his cheeks and chin, little mottled spots of irritation blooming red under the rooms warm light. Lance wondered if he could steal one of Hunks precious avocados to mash into a diy face-mask.

The door slams open suddenly, loud and completely throwing off the sort of zen vibe he had created with his sweet smelling tea and halfhearted ponderings. It's Pidge, fluffy ginger hair wild with the outdoor winds and a bright red nose. They toss him a jittery grin when they catch his gaze, burying their hands in the pockets of a bright orange sweater Lance knows Hunk owns.

"Hey, bub." Light and cheerful. As if the ginger had simultaneously won the lottery and adopted all of the local shelter cats. "What's uupp?"

"Um." Lance cranes his head from his spot on the sofa to examine his friend closely. They're shaking and shifting foot to foot. "How many coffees have you had?"

"Only four." They say, wide grin stretching their cheeks. It's unsettling and Lance is overcome with unwanted IT flashbacks. "Teen."

"Fourteen?" The latino chokes on air. "Holy fuck, Matt's gonna kill you."

The ginger stretches leisurely, joints popping as if their forty and not sixteen. "Can't get mad over what he doesn't know."

Lance raises a perfectly manicured brow (shapely waxed and tweezed into maximum perfection) "it's hard not to miss a highly caffeinated teenager. You're like... internally bouncing on the walls?"

"He can't see me over text." They wave a hand at him dismissively.

"He can't." Hunk agrees from the kitchen, his tone is ominously singsong. "But he can when he drops by."

Pidge stiffens, mouths a curse and hurtles over the couch to land beside Lances feet. "He's coming over? Doesn't he have a date tonight?" They cackle around their hands, resembling a bushy haired elf that would appear in the fairytales Lance used to obsess over. "Did they _ditch him?_ "

"Uh, no? Matt's thinking about bringing them over." Hunk sounds equally nervous and excited, suddenly explaining his all but maniac urge to cook a five course dinner.

"Uh, hello? Why was I not informed of this? I've been home all day!" Lance shoots up from his lazy sprawl, knocking his heels against Pidges thighs in his scramble to the bathroom.

"I didn't want you to spend all day grooming." The large man sounds apologetic, but firm in a way that says he still thinks it's the right choice. "You have exams, dude."

"I have good impressions to make, Hunk!" His voice is warped with the sudden rush of the sink faucet. "I can't do that looking like the embodiment of student misery!"

If anyone responds, it's lost by the splash of the water pressure being cranked up. Crusty dried toothpaste is flaking from the taps knob, grotesquely clinging to the palm of Lances hand when it brushes against the cold steel. The disgust bubbling in his chest is brushed off with chilled spray of the tap water, spluttering noisily as if there was stones jammed in the pipes. It's loud and jarring, shaking off the last of the pre exam exhaustion with a hiss. It's nice, the quiet in the noise, as if it was the only thing that existed. The sounds are repetitive and calming, smooth like the palm oil Lance spreads thinly across his face. There's displeasure in the acknowledgement of the spots still marring his face; knows he'll have to wear a foundation that will clog up his pores till it ends up creating more of the zits.

 _Sacrifices must be made_ , Lance remembers someone saying in an old movie he'd seen as a kid; an overly dramatic villain leering over the protagonist with a smugness that only ends in failure. The line always felt posh and arrogant, but seemed relevant enough as he carefully ruined his skin in the deteriorating hope of making a good, clean impression.

Sacrifices indeed.

 **Keith**

 _People weren't right_ , was a lesson Keith had learned early on in his life. People weren't _good_ , there was anger and pain and the human brain really wasn't as nice as the childish rose colored lenses had made it seem. There was illness in the mind more often than not; an invisible poison slowly tearing them apart.

He could see it in the eyes of past fosters, in the eyes of a stores cashier who told him they liked his hair, in his own whenever he bothered to glance at his reflection.

But never in the eyes of the man sitting across from him.

Shiro was damaged, hurting and afraid. But somehow still impossibly pure. There was never darkness lurking in his soulful eyes, in his kind words or in his gentle hands. Keith knew without a doubt that the man would never lay a malicious touch on him, knew without thinking that there would never be anyone who'd be as careful as Shiro was.

He still flinched when the older man reached forward.

Keith couldn't help it, just saw the hand coming at him and suddenly he was a child again, small and frightened and painted black and blue. He felt like an idiot, thoughtlessly jerking away from someone he trusted. As if years away had been nothing but a fruitless attempt to play normal, to pretend the damage was rubber bullets. Frustration bubbles in his chest, hot and unwelcome. It had been _years_. This should not still haunt him, this should not dictate how he acts.

The worst part was Shiro's face, guilty and understanding. His brows scrunch in a way that makes the scar streaking across the bridge of his nose crinkle awkwardly. Keith feels like a villain.

They say nothing, quiet and careful, dancing around the subject without words. The younger males head ducks to break the eye contact, to shut the doors and say no more. Because eyes were the windows to the soul, the eyes told of stories and pain and _sickness_.

The silence is loud against the ringing in Keith's ears.


	4. reuniting in the best and worst way

Ch 4

 **This is so short sorry. Been having writers block again ugh, I also haven't proof read this? I'm pulling this entire story out of my ass for when I feel like writing, and haven't really put any actual effort into this yet? I'm sure I will when it sinks more into the angst but for now- -**

 **Also sorry for the delay, I really didn't think I'd ever come back to this but seeing the comments made me return. My sudden fall into a harsh depression really didn't help my uploading time lmao.**

 **Comments:**

 **nigil1017: thanks! I'm glad someone likes it because my feelings are mixed tbh**

 **Guest: omg ty so much! Too kind skksksk. And I'll try to update more often haha**

 **laila: wkskksksk your comments were what pushed me to update! I know this chapter is sort of a mess but I hope you like it, honestly your comments cheered me up so ty**

Lance

Matts boyfriend is startlingly familiar. He's the broad man who visited his neighbor the day prior, his short scruffy hair was combed back into a presentable quiff that's streaked boldly with bright white. He looks just as surprised to see them as they are, but grins warmly and claps his hands on his thighs in a manner that reminds Lance of a khaki pant father who smoked in the high school parking lot. Only safer, and less likely to slip weed into his pocket.

"Lance!" Shiro's voice is a deep baritone that rumbles in the brunettes chest. "I knew this was the same apartment complex but gotta be honest, I didn't think I'd see you here."

Pidges face raises further from behind the screen. "Yo, my dude."

"Not just Lance." Hunk interrupts, his cheeks are flushed with the heat in the kitchen, apron immaculate as he expertly douses some sort of red sauce into a pan. "It's the whole package."

Shiro, to his credit, only looks a little surprised to see them all pop up at once and keeps his cool with yet another smile, albeit a bit more amused this time. It's a brotherly look that leaves Lance feeling a bit more at home than he had before. _God_ , did he miss his siblings. "You guys are all roommates?"

"Yeah." Mat laughs, an embarrassed flush reddening the tips of his ears. "It's a tight squeeze, but we manage."

"Barely." Pidge ducks their head back into their computer. "Not a day goes by without some sort of claustrophobic clusterfuck."

"We moved in two days ago, Pidge." Hunk whistles in delight as he sprinkles a green spice in a move too similar to Salt Bae to be accidental. Lance wheezes into his shoulder.

"My point exactly."

"Okaayyyy." The ginger male claps a hand on his boyfriends shoulder, grins widely and stoops to ruffle Pidges untamed mane. They shriek with betrayal. "When's dinner ready?"

Hunks smile is as proud as it is feral. "Glad you asked," smoothly, the large man slides five platters onto the wobbly plastic dinner table. "Dinner, is served."

0

 **Lance**

The meal is flamboyant and warm. Their company only raises the giddy mood that puts on two giggle fits and a mini food fight under the table. Pidge gags into their napkin whenever Mat flirts, not even attempting the art of subtlety.

It's nice, and Lance finds himself disappointed as it draws to an end. Shiro felt a bit like family, had chipped away at the edge of homesickness that brews in his gut like a led soup. As nice as it was to get away and play adult, Lance couldn't help daydreaming of the Miami beaches and Mommas hefty breakfasts every chance he had. It felt a little like defeat. Knew his siblings would be sure to tease him over it lest they found out. Didn't care as much as he should.

They wave Matt and Shiro out with little trouble and Lance finds himself trying not to think about what will likely go down as soon as they reach Shiro's place. He distracts himself by assisting Hunk clear the table, places dibs on drying the dishes and jovially complains about their shattered unit of a dishwasher. No one had even bothered to ask what happened to the thing, a shattered mosaic of mystery that was tucked between the stovetop and sink. Pidge liked to make up stories of what had happened; anything between an assassination attempt and a botched pancake competition.

The night slows to a craw, a muted hum that resonates soundly. Lance can feel his eyelids getting heavy before it's even midnight.

0

 **Keith**

Gritty hot sand burns into the palms of his hands, it's in his throat and eyes _and he can't breathe._

The sand is hot but the air is icy. There's a coil of dread unraveling in his gut. Something terrible has happened; he knows this well but can't remember what. The quiet is loud and Keith is choking on sand and tears and screaming. _Loud loud loud_ silence is ringing in his ears, it's painfully high pitched and Keith jerked his head back to slam it against something hard. The pain crawls to behind his eyes and the black haired youth doesn't bother stifling his cry.

There's no one here but him.

Being alone was something he had always longed for. Had thought he longed for. But faced with the screaming numbness it felt a bit more like hell than paradise. He clings to the ground, grappling at nothing at all. Nothing seems familiar and he can't see through the sand in his eyes and he _cantbreathehecantbreathehecantbreathe_ -!

It wasn't quiet, was the first thing Keith noticed when he woke up. The silence isn't screeching at him. There was some metallic scraping from what sounded like behind the bedrooms far wall, loudening voices all talking over eachother like a flock of deranged parrots. It was still dark; shadowy and comfortably safe. The chunky red clock on his bedside table read 3:40 am. Lovely.

Something cold and irritated boiled in his chest. It was late. It was early. It was loud as fuck.

The scraping cuts off in favor of booming laughter, thick and throaty that's nearly drowned out by a sudden trill of piano keys- and _it's too early for this shit._

Keith is on his feet in an instant, ducking to keep the blankets wrapped around his shoulders as he stalks down his narrow hallway. The front door is a hassle and a half to open, still bleary with sleep and remnants of alcohol, Keith nearly falls when it opens.

The sounds are even louder in the hall, the man wonders if Rolo has woken up by it too. Wonders if he's even home.

Wonders why he's forced out of bed to check that the voice is just his damn neighbors and not _him_.

But there's no one in the hall, and the voice is from the room next door. No one is here. Everything is fine.

Everything is _fine_.

The doorknob is brass instead of the familiar steel Keith is accustomed to, round and shaped in a dizzy swirl that crawls down to the keyhole. It's oddly pretty for something so tacky.

Nothing happens when he jams at the doorbell (not that he'd been expecting anything, it was old and gritty with rust (which was odd considering they were indoors)

The voices are loud and jovial, he would have considered even possibly tipsy, if he hadn't been working at a bar for the past two years. Keith jiggles the weird knob (jarringly loose and not screwed in correctly) until the door juts open a hair, bouncing lightly from the thin golden chain Keith can see holding it shut. With a tight, grudging sigh the dark haired man pulls back and raps on the doorframe, listens to the song rise in volume with an almost panicky flat tone before Keith gives in to his tired, violent urges and kicks the ruddy wall.

"Hey!" His voice is deep and rough with sleep. "Shut the fuck up!"

The music cuts abruptly with a hiss of "oh shit." And then there's a shadow under the door and it's swinging open.

A familiar sharp chin and wide eyes are blink back at him, complete with a fuzzy head of ginger hanging over his shoulder.

And Keith curses at his earlier unspoken hope that they had the possibility of being _good_ neighbors.


End file.
